


A Thread Unraveling

by DansLesCieux (TheyCallMePoppy)



Series: Rise of the Titans [2]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-The Second Titan War (Percy Jackson), Pre-Gaea & The Second Giant War (Percy Jackson), Pre-The Second Titan War (Percy Jackson), Titans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23728144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheyCallMePoppy/pseuds/DansLesCieux
Summary: She sat the last battle out, because, truthfully, she'd been afraid. Of either side winning. But now Kronos and the Elder Titans are back in Tartarus, her remaining demi-titan friends are being picked off by rampant monsters and PO'd Olympians, the world seems to be falling down around her ears, and she can't shake the feeling that she made the wrong choice, somewhere along the way.Five years now she's been working for the gods, learning the lay of the mythological land and some of the darker secrets that've been kept hidden for too long. She knows what she's doing now, and she's pretty good at what she does. So, if she decides to bend a few rules here or there - to scrounge up a little extra hope for her shattered, healing race in the only places she can - well. She knows how to not get caught, at least.---Short excerpts from the Rise of the Titans verse, covering events from pre-TLO up to the conclusion of the Second Gigantomachy. Story grows canon-divergent further into the HOO timeline.
Series: Rise of the Titans [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1708915
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	1. An Invitation from the General

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following excerpt takes place on 6/01/2014, between BotL and TLO, before Percy and Beckendorf blow the Andromeda to kingdom come, obviously.

She knocks twice, softly, and hears a mumble from inside.

It doesn’t necessarily sound like a “come in,” but it wasn’t a request to leave ( _those_ are always shouted, after all), so she decides it’s good enough and tries the door knob. It turns easily, and she steps into the room. 

It’s a sea cabin renovated to be an office: anchored bookshelves and sleek, crimson carpet, a low-set coffee table by a green seti and a leather wingback chair. A large, oaken desk sits at the far end with a highback leather chair on the other side. The desk is stacked neatly with folders and articles, clippings from newspapers and an open, faded tome. Her recipient is standing by the side of the desk, too, pouring over the contents of the manilla folder opened on the desktop in front of him. 

It pulls her up short, to recognize him: the tall, tan build and sandy blond hair, the strong line of his jaw and the - the scar cutting up his cheek, over his eye and straight through his brow. 

“Luke?” she says, trying not to sound too horrified. She hasn’t seen him for years. Wasn’t honestly expecting to see him ever again, all things considered.

He straightens up and turns to her in one fluid motion. There’s none of the mirth or mischief she recalls touching his face now; just an ice cold demeanor. So uncharacteristic for the son of Hermes (for _any_ child of Hermes) that it takes her a moment, gaze studying his half-forgotten features, to notice his eyes.

His glowing, _golden_ eyes.

She feels the bottom of her stomach drop out, cold tingles erupting in her hands. Her back hits the door.

He smiles at her, and it hits like a punch to the gut. “Hello, Ariana.”

“Kronos,” she rasps, blinking as a sudden damp clouds her eyes. Where the tears are coming from - shock or confusion or horror - she’s not sure, but now is _not_ the time. She fights them back, hands clenching into fists at her sides. “ _Kronos_ , what - How are you …?”

“Quite well,” he says, icey smile taking on a hint of smug.

“How are you _here_?” she demands, feeling some of the old vexation welling up inside of her. It passes on a new wave of nausea, though, grief and fear breaking over her tongue with the taste of bile. “You were in Tartarus. You all were.”

“And yet.” He splays his arms, blond brows drawn up on his forehead. “Wonders never cease, do they?”

She looks around the office, struck suddenly by the idea. “The others then - Grandfather, Krios, everyone - they’re all here?”

“In transit, unfortunately.” He sweeps his hand, and a coffee tray on the table starts to unpack itself, sprawling across the polished wood with little, porcelain “clinks.” Striding over to it, he says, “Have no concern; we all will be reunited soon.”

“I don’t …” She presses back into the door, one hand twitching out to the messenger bag hanging at her side. She grasps the worn leather flap like a lifeline, forcing her shoulders to square, her spine straight, as she says, “I’m here to deliver a package.”

“Yes, I am all too aware.” He scoffs, bending down to collect a white porcelain coffee cup and then goes to pour the carafe. “A courier, of all things. A waste of talent. Of _blood_.” His eyes flick over to her, drifting cooly over her person. “Though I suppose it had its uses. One would be hard-pressed to assemble a training regimen so thorough, even under Iapetus’ design.”

He slides a mostly-full coffee cup across the table to her, the cream and sugar trailing behind obediently. Then he goes to pour himself his own cup.

She doesn’t take it - doesn’t even dare step closer. This isn’t what she’s here for. She’s - here for a delivery. Kronos (or Luke, or something in between) being here doesn’t change that. It _doesn’t_. She has a job to do.

She pulls the flap of her bag open, extracting the little cube-shaped package that fits comfortably in the seat of her palm, tied up in twine to hold the brown paper wrapping in place. No return address, no recipient name, only the delivery address: 

_East Ansley Marina_

_South Dock Slip 12F, Room 16_

_Calgary, VA, 23072_

She passes another glance around the room, taking in the nice, well-used furniture and the collection of books, the little trinkets at the end of every shelf and the stacks of documents on his desk. This is probably his main office. Which means she’s probably on the _Princess Andromeda_ right now, even though she could have _sworn_ the hull said “ _The Golden Cornucopia_ ” when she’d stepped on deck earlier. Hermes has been keeping most of the war news and intel far away from her lately, but he at least made sure she knew the name of the Titans’ main hideout. If only so that she would _not_ do exactly what she just did - stumble right onto it.

Gods, he’s going to kill her when he finds out about this. She’ll be lucky if he doesn’t ground her for the rest of the year.

Her eyes settle and narrow on Kronos’ face, jagged bolts of dark green and indigo coming off of her. She holds the package out to him. “I have a delivery. For this location. I’m guessing it’s for you.”

He takes a seat in the wingback chair, sipping his coffee while he gestures her over with his free hand.

And, gods, but she wants to leave. To turn right on her heel and stride back out the door, toss the package in a garbage can on her way out, hop up on Tinman and take off for somewhere the heck out of dodge. But she can’t. She didn’t see anyone else on board when she came down here, but, knowing Kronos, he probably already has guards stationed outside the door; monsters all the way up to the main deck and an extra squadron of demi-titans (ones she probably even knows by name) on the docks past that. She’s already played right into his hand so far - she’s going to have to gain some ground back before she can even start thinking of how to get out of this.

So she makes her way around to the seti, stiffly taking a seat on the far end from him and dropping the package on the table between them. He doesn’t even glance at it. She pours some of the cream into the coffee cup on her side of the table (because, for all the bad things Kronos has and continues to do, drugging others has never been in his repertoire - that’s more Zeus’ territory), blowing across the top to cool it down and stir the cream in a bit at the same time.

“You have grown much, since the last I saw of you,” he says. He’s studying her again when she looks up, and a sudden cool rushes through her. 

She takes a sip of her coffee to hide the sudden tremble in her hands, snarking, “So has that body.”

He looks down at himself, brows raising, as if he’s forgotten. A sliver of a smirk creeps onto his lips then, his tanned hand going up to settle on the flat of his stomach over his black dress shirt. “Yes, quite a fortunate find. A devout follower, eager to work and give all he had for our cause. He saw the vision of our brighter future quite well, and he embraced it.”

“He was an angry, lost teenager.” She sets her cup down on the table, some of the coffee sloshing up over the rim. A crown of red light simmers over her head, bright and agitated as it weaves through her blond locks. “You played on his vulnerabilities and swindled a 21-year-old boy out of his body. I don’t-” The anger bleeds from her face for a moment, replaced by a deep sadness that settles in indigo clouds over her shoulders. “Is this really how you want to start your new rule? Built on the backs of stolen bodies and tormented children? I thought the whole point was to be _better_ than the Olympians.”

Kronos’ eyes slit, the gold flashing dangerously. She feels the temperature in the room drop a few degrees, air pulling sluggishly into her lungs through the thick of the tension. 

“Regime changes are never without cruelty, Ariana,” he says after a moment, his voice cool and steady. “There will be time for kindness and mercy later, once the throne is mine and our people prosper once more.”

“And what if the throne isn’t yours by the end?” she asks, hands finding her knees and clutching them tightly. “What if this goes the same as the first time-”

“It will not.”

“-because, honestly, there isn’t much that’s changed since then and now-”

“We have Oceanus and his kin on our side. Our half-children and the godlings’ own rally beneath our banner, swords raised to _my_ horn.”

“-so what if it turns out _exactly the same_.” She meets the gold of his gaze, lips pulled into a thin, tight line, short fingernails digging into the worn denim on her knees. “What if I, and all the other Titans, have to watch you and your brothers be cast down again, scattered to the darkest shadows of Tartarus, for _good_. Only, this time, you’ll be taking _my kin_ with you.”

She reaches up, pointer finger and thumb clasping over the beveled glass of one of her morning star earrings absently. “Those ‘half-children and godlings’ are my family and friends. Some of them aren’t even thirteen yet. And you’re going to send them marching into a bloodbath, against gods and demigods and monsters, for a fight you’re not even sure you’ll win.”

“We _will_ win,” he hisses, and the shadows _writhe_ beneath his chair.

“But if you lose? What then?” She releases her earring, sucking in a sharp, rasping breath. “You’ll be back in Tartarus with the rest of the Elders, my friends will be dead, my family will be split. The Titans who stayed neutral or got left behind will either face punishment from the gods or spend the next few millenia licking their boots to gain back the trust and positions that they’re realistically never going to give us again.” 

She meets his glare dead-on, the breath falling out of her in a rush. Robed in golden light, wisps of rose pink and solemn, soft blue woven through, she says, “Please. I’m not sure if you’re doing this for pride, or for the throne, or for our family, or maybe all three, but _please_ don’t. This is going to ruin us.”

“You cannot see it. The vision.” He tips his head to her, the gesture so completely, wholly _Kronos_ that it makes her a little nauseous to see it coming from Luke’s body. “You were raised in subjugation, nurse-fed the propaganda of those gilded thieves from a youngling. It is unfortunate, yet unsurprising, that it is still yet beyond your power to conceive of a life greater than the one into which you were born.”

A flick of his wrist, and he crosses one leg over the other, settling back into his chair as the coffee tray (minus her cup and his) begins to pack itself up. He takes another sip, saying, “Yet it is fine.”

He locks their gazes, flecked hazel to pure gold, his lips pulled up at the corners in a smug, little smile. “I will win our war. Blood will be shed, and lives will be lost on both sides - though, the Fates willing, in our favor - and I will lead our armies and scourge the mighty Olympus until the golden throne is a molten puddle at my feet and my brothers and sisters are finally, truly unfettered.” He leans forward to set the cup on the table, staying there with his bent arms propped on his knees, arched towards her. “I will rebuild this world anew, to the peace and prosperity of the Titans. And I will show you - and all others who dare not imagine it - what a better world looks like.”

 _Dis immortales_. He’s really - _they’re_ really going to-

“Now, open this.” He reaches out, nudging the package towards her.

It throws her for a moment, panic derailed as she says, “It’s for you.”

He only sits back in his chair, silent and smirking.

She pulls the package back over then, flicking a quick, wary look up to him, then back down. It troubles her more now than before; that she doesn’t know who sent this. Doesn’t even really know where it came from, since she picked it up at the DC transit center. Then again, this whole meeting is too long-winded and contrived to be one of Kronos’ plots to … capture her? Kill her? She’s not really sure how she expected their next meeting to go after so long, but she definitely never expected something like _this_.

The twine knot comes undone easily, brown paper crinkling as her fingers split the seams and unfold it. It’s a plain cardboard box inside, only a small piece of scotch tape holding the lid closed, so she uses the thumb of her nail to slice cleanly through it and pulls the lid open. 

It hits her instantly: the smell of old dust and rich incense. Weathered wood and rotten flesh and _smoke_. 

It’s noxious, and she slaps a hand over her nose and mouth as she’s suddenly catapulted back to her old Camp days. Remembers this overwhelming stench, permeating the upper floors of the Big House and embroidered into the fabric of her favorite blue sweater (which she’d had to _burn_ ) after a poorly-thought-out dare by the Stoll brothers to sneak into the-

The Attic. This package - Who would send Kronos something from the Big House Attic?

She parts the little, shredded paper curls stuffing the inside of the box, digging with her fingers until she hits something that feels cool and smooth. She pulls it out.

It’s a prism glass: a polyhedron with so many faces that it nearly looks spherical, each one cut perfectly so that the light that trickles into it reflects and refracts at neat, perpendicular angles, sending rainbows of fractured light shooting off in all directions. She rolls the prism in her palm a bit, eyes enraptured by the play of light she can feel threading through it. By the old, luminous magic she can feel coming off of it in pulses like a heartbeat.

“There are few relics that survive from the days of the Hyperionides,” Kronos says. “Rarer, yet, for them to remain in such pristine condition through the tests of war and time. And yet, this one has endured. This is _Calystegia_.”

‘ _The covering cup_.’ Morning glory. She almost laughs. Almost. Has to fight back a cringe, instead, as a tidal wave of memories hits her; hours and hours spent conjuring illusions of the small, white flowers for her grandfather in their sunny little corner of hell, again, _again_ , too fuzzy, not enough petals, the leaves are misshapen, that one is crooked, the stem must be longer, _we are artists, little beam, mediocrity has no place in our craft_.

Kronos breaks her from the memory with a command: “Cast your light through it.”

She switches a wary look between him and the prism. With little else to lose, she holds it up and sets her palm aglow with a layer of soft, golden light.

The prism soaks the light up like a sponge, pulling it up through its glass center and casting it (concentrated, _solid_ ) out its opposite face. Entranced, she focuses more light through it, feeding it shades of maroon and royal blue this time, lavender, viridian. It takes it all; threading the light through its core and sending it out its other side as a long, golden shaft starts to take form, growing heavy in her hand. 

First a hilt, single-handed, the dark leather of its grip embossed with thin rings of gold, abutting the glass prism (which, she sees now, makes up the pommel) on one side and a short, golden guard that curls up and away from the hilt on the other. The blade comes next: pure, glimmering gold all the way down its leaf-shaped body, edges sharpened and gleaming dangerously beneath the fluorescents of the room. There is lettering engraved into the ricasso near the guard, little leaflets of characters in a language that seems familiar to her but she can’t read. 

She shifts her grip from the pommel to the hilt, weighing it in her hand. It’s lighter than it looks, just the right amount of heft for her, and balanced so well that even Iapetus would approve. The cliche “ _they don’t make them like this anymore_ ” comes to mind as she traces the lettering on the ricasso gently, and the blade seems to glow beneath her touch.

“Imperial gold,” Kronos says. He’s sitting back when she looks over to him, chin rested on the hand he has propped on the arm of his chair, smirking. As if amused at having been forgotten. “Though our race tends to favor Celestial bronze, Hyperion and his children have always had a proclivity for gold.” His narrowed eyes gleam golden, as if proving the point.

It takes her a moment to get past the reverence. She’s never held a sword like this before, never even seen one up close. Something this fine, this old, this _powerful_ \- the demi-titans at Camp Half-Blood were never even allowed up into the Attic (an unwritten rule she’d always tried hard not to think about). All the best relics always went to the children of Athena, or Ares, or Hephaestus. Fine-crafted bows to Cabin 7 and silver athames to Cabin 10, the most balanced arrows and the sharpest knives. By the time things trickled all the way down the “extras” puttering around Cabin 11, you’d be lucky to snag yourself a half-rusted dagger from the back of the armory shed. 

It was just the way things were. Honestly, she’d never really even noticed it before - until she’d been cornered by a squad of empousai behind a pizza parlor three weeks after leaving Camp, and her old knife had literally shattered in her hands.

She comes out of the memory quickly, blinking down at the sword in her hand, and then again up at him. He’s watching her expectantly, as if waiting for her. Her acceptance.

She shakes her head and turns the hilt in her hand, holding it out to him. “This is an heirloom; it’s _priceless_. I can’t take this. Especially not when it’s obviously been stolen from Camp Half-Blood.”

“It _is_ an heirloom,” he says, voice dropping low, venomous. “A Titan relic. It has no place in the hoard of the gods’ greedy, little halflings and their decrepit oracle.” Straightening up, he feigns nonchalance then, raising an eyebrow at the sword she is still holding out to him. “It belongs in the hands of one of our own.”

After six years of experience with Kronos and his games, it takes her almost no time at all to pick out his meaning. She sets the sword down gently on the table, glaring. “I’m not fighting on your side in this war, Granduncle. I won’t.”

“Yes, Oceanus said that you had already made your stance quite clear to them.” The shadows beneath his chair reach up, coiling around his ankles. He shifts back in his seat and settles his arms on either armrest, locking their gazes together. “You disappoint me.” 

It cuts into her chest in a way she wasn’t expecting; a molten hot knife lodged between her ribs. Gods. 

She hates Kronos sometimes. Hates his greed, his ruthlessness, she hates his arrogance and his blatant racism and the way he uses innocent demigods like chess pieces. She hates that he’s trying to kill her friends (some intentionally, some by collateral), she hates that he’s leading her family into another war they can’t win, she hates that he sometimes doesn’t seem to care about anything other than revenge and being king. But he-

He taught her how to keep her orchid alive during the winter, and how to grow parsley up from seedlings. How to tell time from the stars overhead or the turn of the sun in the sky. He taught her stories of the Golden Age; memories from the days of Titan reign that were lost when the gods decided they weren’t worth being passed down. He taught her to be _proud_ of being a demi-titan - to be proud of who she was.

There is a lot that she hates about him, that she hates him for doing. But she was, in a weird way, sort of raised by Kronos and his brothers. She’s always looked up to them - to _him_. Chances are, some part of her always will.

He crosses his legs, fingers of one hand drumming on the armrest as he says, “By now, you must have an intricate knowledge of the Olympians’ inner-workings; their weaknesses and resource caches. Such information could make a large difference in this war, Ariana.” He pauses, his gaze roaming across her face, taking her in. “I would even go as far as to say that it might be a key turning point for our cause.”

 _You could be the reason we lose_ , in other words. She’s not sure what disgusts her more: the fact that he is trying to manipulate her with something like that, or the fact that it’s _working_. 

Gods. Bad enough that she might have to stand by and watch her friends and family get slaughtered in droves, cut down for another hopeless coup, but if it was partially _her_ fault that it happened? It makes something cold and tight knot up in her stomach just thinking about. _Dis immortales_. She’d never sleep again, for all the guilt that would haunt her. 

“No,” she says, teeth grit. A sash of maroon settles around her shoulders, twisting irately. “If this war is so far gone that you need the help of a 16-year-old, half-mortal girl to win it, then that should be your sign that it isn’t worth fighting in the first place.”

He raises a single, blond eyebrow, his lips pulling back at the corners in something close to but not quite a sneer. It’s an expression she knows all too well from Kronos by now; that particular brand of half-annoyance, half-impress she has a habit of evoking from him.

“Staying neutral in this war is my own choice. Like my mother’s, and her husband’s. Like countless other minor gods and Titans and half-mortals out there.” Hand reaching out, she grips the hilt of _Calystegia_ and pushes it further across the table towards him, making the gold blade sing against the wood. “You don’t get to take that away from me. No one does.”

“It was my hope-” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and holding it. He looks older, all of the sudden; a bone-deep weariness. “-that you would _choose_ to join us. After all that we’ve done for you.”

“It’s because of all you’ve done for me that I’m not joining the Olympians’ side either.”

“It puzzles me then.” He cocks up a blond brow, saying, “For all the time I have known you, you have spoken of a desire for freedom to go or stay where you please. To live a life of stability and choice, apart from the scrutiny of the gods.” He shifts in his seat and waves his hand in the direction of the sword. “I am _offering_ that to you now. An opportunity to fight for your own freedom, alongside your kin and kith.”

“If it was as simple as that, I would.” Her forehead wrinkles with vexation, streaks of violet and a simmering, burnt orange rushing up to weave through her hair, curling around her ears. “But that’s not the reason we’re fighting for here, is it? If it were, there would have been other ways ( _smarter ways_ ) to do it.” Left pointer finger poking the table hard enough to rattle the coffee tray, she says, “We’re fighting this war right now because _you_ want the throne. And because you can’t stand seeing your son have it instead.”

Kronos’ eyes close off. “Is he a good king, child?”

“That isn’t my point.”

“Is he a good king though?” he asks, sharp and cool. “Is he a just king, considerate, humble? Does he care for his people? Does he rule as he should?”

“Will you?” she asks. Wasn’t going to, wouldn’t usually dare, but it slips out of her in a soft, rasping croak.

Kronos tips his chin up, eyes bright. “Of course.”

“For how long though?” she whispers.

And he stands, sighing and turning away from her. “Honestly, Ariana, I had thought we had long since put this debate to rest.”

She stands too, hands fisting at her side. “I know what happened at the end of the Golden Age. I’ve heard the stories of what you did before the Ten Year War started, and they’re not all as nice as the ones you used to tell me in the greenhouse.” The glare he sends her could melt steel, and she shivers all the way down her spine. “I - I’ve seen Zeus getting worse with my own eyes; he’s gotten greedier, more paranoid, more hateful with every year that goes by. I can _see_ what the power is doing to him. What it did to him. And to you, and to your father.”

Kronos nearly hisses at the mention of his father, leaving her to move over to his desk.

She follows after him. “It’s a never-ending cycle; staging coups and waging wars and _killing_ your _kin_ in cold blood. All for a throne. A crown. It _ruins_ you - it ruins everyone who has it.” He moves around the side of his desk, taking a seat in the leather highback, while she stops in front of it. The polished oak feels smooth and cool under her palms, a sturdy frame she leans over as she says, “If you really want what’s best for our people-”

“What, then?” he asks. He's staring up at her from his seated position, but the pierce of golden eyes on her makes her feel smaller than ever before him. “If I do not retake the throne, what can I do for my people? How can we be free? How can we flourish?”

She pulls her hands back, a little frown on her face. “I ...”

He nods, picking up one of the documents on the corner of his desk and skimming it over. “Your concern for my corruption in kingship is noted, as always.” He glances up at her from the page, a little reprimand in the slant of his brows. “Whether you approve of my taking the throne or not, it is a necessary component to achieving our goals. For our people to have better lives, to live freely and contently in a Titans’ kingdom, there must be a Titan king.” Glancing back down again, he picks up a fountain pen and uncaps it swiftly, starting to sign. “As it so happens, I am the most appropriate for the role. And so I will be.”

It ends just like the last time they discussed this. Like the last dozen times they’ve hashed out this very issue together; her pleading and him dismissive, countless examples through myth and history being brought up and shot down for all of his stubbornness. The failure tastes just as sour on her tongue this time as all the others. She never could convince him. Seems she never will.

She steps back from his desk, shoving her hands behind her back so he can’t see the way they tremble. In a low whisper, she asks, “Can I go now?”

“I will not keep you here against your will.” He flicks another quick look up to her, a flash of gold, before sliding the document off to the side to let the ink dry and going for the next.

She’s been dismissed. 

So she adjusts the strap of her messenger bag on her shoulder and turns around, walking slowly to the door. There’s a void opening up inside of her, large and yawning and so, so empty, and she doesn’t want to cry in front him, she _won’t_ , gods dammit.

Just as her hand closes over the door knob, she hears him call:

“Take the sword with you.”

She doesn’t turn back. “I don’t want the sword.”

“If not for my sake, then for your mother’s,” he says, casually manipulative. “It will surely serve you better in protecting yourself than whatever second-hand trinket you have managed to scrounge up in your journeys so far.”

“I _don’t_ want it,” she says, finally looking back to glare at him over her shoulder. Dark maroon and crimson light shudders around her shoulder blades, hugging close to her back. 

He meets her anger with amusement, flicking his wrist in the direction of the coffee table. “Then consider it a loan, if you must.”

Crimson dipping to navy blue, a wary shade of dark purple. “A loan?”

“When the war is won, and we reign once more,” he tells her, golden eyes glowing on her. The shadows from the corners of the room seem to creep in, stretching up towards his desk and pooling beneath his chair. “You will return it to me then. I will hear your repentance, and you will be welcome in the glory of our new kingdom as you were always meant to be.”

She keeps her eyes narrowed on him. “I meant what I said today, all of it. And I stand by my decisions.”

He simply waves her on. “Take the sword.”

She takes the damn sword. If only so she can use it to stab him, when this is all over.


	2. Helios

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set 12/14/2014, after the conclusion of the Second Titanomachy but before the start of TLH. Behold, the (arguably) first major canon divergence.

The glass shards gleam golden beneath the light of the lamp, sighing trickles of aureate particles into the air above them. A soft, sweet whisper of light.

She sweeps her hand over them, smiling as the little golden motes cling to her fingers and flutter down into her palm. They feel warm against her skin, soothing and sleepy, like sunlight cast through a car window.

“Are you sure this is all of them, sweetie?”

She looks up, meeting her mother’s equally hazel eyes. Her hands settle on the edge of the limestone slab, leaning over the glass. “I think so. The fires in California are already dying down, and, the last time I called Zel, she said the stars are reading that it’s time.”

Eos nods, her bottom lip caught between perfectly white teeth as a cloak of deep blue light frets over her shoulders. “Yes. Yes, of course. I only want to-” She looks down at the glass and holds a tentative hand out. The light from the shards surges up to meet her, golden rays twining and clasping around her arm in a loving embrace. A gentle smile lights the Titaness’s face, and the air around her deepens in shades of magenta, peach, a soft rose gold. “I only want to be certain. I fear he would be in pain, if we were to attempt it when he’s not yet whole.”

“Well, does … does he _feel_ whole?”

The light settles into Eos’ palm, tendrils coiling out from the base and wrapping around her fingers. For a moment, just a flash, it takes the form of a hand: long, slim fingers and a broad, glowing palm, burning bright gold, clasped tenderly around her own. One quick, warm squeeze, and the light trickles back down to the stone, pooling onto the glass shards in glistening droplets.

Eos gazes down at the lit glass, a caress of champagne gold smoothing down her cheek. “I think so.”

“Alright.” Ria picks up the lamp on the limestone slab and sets it off to the side. She then lifts her hands and crosses them at the palms, hovering over the stone. “Then let’s do this.”

The Titaness raises her hands, mimicking her daughters pose. Her voice is steady, an uncharacteristic command, as she explains, “We will move together. Draw the light from the rising dawn into yourself, and channel it into him.” 

Their hands are starting to glow now; rich, golden light billowing off their palms and falling in waves over the table, traces of crystalline white and toasted orange and a deep, heady crimson coiling around them.

“I will take lead on setting his form.” Eos looks up to her daughter across the slab, a pool of light (every color of the new day’s morning) consuming the space between them. “You will fill it. The pieces are already all here - we need only bring them together now.”

Ria nods. The light between them is growing bright now, so radiant that it should probably hurt to look at, but it doesn’t burn the way she was expecting. It only feels warm, and full, and so, _so_ brilliant. Like she could bathe in it, if she wanted to.

“Remember, we must be done before the sun touches the horizon.” Then Eos’ lips part in a soft smile, hazel eyes bright with shades of green and flecks of gold, her beautiful face glowing with pride and a deep, reaching love. Ria meets it with a bright split of a smile herself, laughing as streaks of light weave their way into her blond locks, a crown to match her mother’s.

The first light of dawn breaks the sky behind her, and Eos’ skin erupts in a blaze of crimson light brushed with gold and maroon, viridian and indigo. Rose-feathered wings tipped in gold fan out behind her, burning a bright crimson, stretching wide and sunning in the light of the new morning. 

Ria feels the power rushing through her as well; a shimmer of gold thrumming down her spine, prickling in the tips of her fingers and burning in the space behind her eyes. The glow from her palms grows blinding to match the splendor of the Dawn’s aura, and they, between the two of themselves, set to work capturing and weaving the light of the dawn. 

It’s hard work. Consuming. Ria and her mother both are, obviously, at their most powerful during this time of day, yet every drop of radiance the rising dawn evokes in them they feed out into the space between them, pressing the light and magic down into the glass shards, making their golden splendor _burn_ with brightness. 

The light is overwhelming now, blinding Ria’s eyes to all but the white glow in front of her, but she can somehow feel the shuddering of the glass shards beneath her hovering hands. Can feel them spinning and gliding and locking into one another, pieces of a puzzle she doesn’t know the shape of, doesn’t need to know. She focuses on filling the gaps instead; laying her light down into the cracks between shards, filling the gaps and soldering it all out into smooth, even layers. And so they build it that way: frame and fill, frame and fill, their work glowing brighter and brighter between their hands with every second it comes closer to being whole.

She doesn’t know how long it takes; loses track of the time that’s passing somewhere between the searing ache in her eyes and the trembling of her hands over the stone. All the strength is draining out of her, _gushing_ out of her, like she’s hooked up the wrong way to an IV, and the light of the rising dawn isn’t replenishing her fast enough to keep up. 

Her hands hit the edge of the limestone slab, knees buckling underneath her, and - for a moment - the light in front of her eyes winks out. She throws her hands back up, gasping, and starts to siphon harder: pulling in more light from the dawn and pushing it faster out through her hands. She’s a conduit, a _wire_ , channeling power greater than her body’s meant to take from node to node as best as she can. 

There’s a hot, tacky burn coursing through her veins now, each beat of her pounding heart throbbing painfully in her chest, it feels like her blood has turned to _acid_ inside of her. She feels tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, her throat closing up with it but still, she has to, she _has to_ -

She reaches out for the horizon with her mind. Opens up what feels like every pore in her body, every millimeter of skin, and takes it all in, basking, _glowing_ with it. Her blood is rushing so hot now that she feels like it’s evaporating inside her, but her heart keeps beating, her chest keeps rising, and she keeps pushing more and more of that power down her arms, out her palms, into the space before her. The light grows brighter, luminescence beyond what she even has words for, pouring out into the empty space of the frame and filling, filling, meeting and matching as it all comes to balance on the edge of a needle and-

An explosion erupts beneath her hands. Heat and radiance surging out as before but different, this time, because it this isn’t just light, it’s _flames_.

She stumbles back from the slab, her legs giving way underneath her as dark spots dance in front of her eyes. Her hands go out to catch her from falling backwards, but the weakness in her arms sends her toppling down anyway, cracking her head against the ground behind her.

She blacks out for a moment.

When she comes back to, there is sunrise overhead, painted in shades of bright gold and fiery red. Dawn is over, and the sun takes the sky once more. 

She sits up with a gasp, one hand immediately going up to cover her mouth as a wave of dizziness crashes over her, followed shortly on its heels by nausea. She feels like she’s going to vomit. There’s a sharp, throbbing ache in the back of her head where she hit it, and she thinks, distantly, that she probably has a mild concussion. But then movement up ahead of her catches her attention, and she looks up.

There’s a man sitting up on the stone slab. 

He’s tall and muscled, somewhere in his late-twenties and divinely attractive - a warm sort of handsome, with his strong jawline and the regal cut of his cheekbones. He wears a pure white chiton trimmed in gold and leather sandals, gold bangles wrapped around his slender wrists that gleam in the morning sunlight to match the bright, blond waves of his chin-length hair. She’s struck for a second by his skin: the smooth, perfect bronze glowing golden from some internal light, a radiance he carries to himself like an aura. He feels _familiar_ , recognition ringing down to the marrow of her bones, even though she’s never seen him before in her life.

He turns in her direction then, as if having sensed her thoughts, and her-

Breath catches in her chest; a flash of _sear_ shooting through her as she meets the blaze of his eyes, burning brighter than the sun behind him, bright enough to blind.

“Helios?” 

His head turns at the soft call, blond waves whispering against his ears as he turns to face her mother on his other side and just - freezes. 

Eos takes a cautious step towards him, pale hands clasped over her mouth as streams of dark, rosy tears trickle down her cheeks. Her crown of light is a soft shade of pink now, trimmed in shades of lavender and sky blue, wavering uncertainly at her temples. She looks too heartbroken to hope. 

He reaches out towards her, fingers unwinding from his palm as he rasps, “Eos?”

She closes the space between them in the blink of an eye, a choked off sob pressed into his shoulder as she throws her arms around him, sweeping him into an embrace as both of their skins erupt in light: hers a soft, tender rose and his a blazing, pure gold. It’s so _bright_ that Ria actually has to turn away, white spots eating away at her sight. 

Even so, she can hear the watery gasps of her mother’s sobs, the quiet, warm whispers he gives her, too soft for Ria to decipher (though she thinks they might be in Greek). She keeps her eyes turned away even after the glow dies down, wanting to give them the privacy they deserve.

The back of her head is still throbbing. She brings her left hand back and probes around the tender spot, hissing quietly when she feels something wet and tacky there. Must’ve fallen on a rock, split it right open. She pulls her hand back around to check and sees red there, red veined with-

Gold. Thick, tepid gold woven through the crimson blood, clinging to the tips of her fingers, too-too hot beneath her touch. Her stomach drops, sunk cool and heavy into her gut as her hand starts to tremble. _Dis immortales_.

“Are you well?” Eos asks softly. 

Ria tenses, wiping the blood off quickly in the dewy grass and biting her tongue to think of an excuse. She relaxes a moment later, however, when she realizes her mother is still speaking to Helios: 

“Any imbalances, or flaws? Do you feel alright?”

“I feel a sight better than before,” he replies, sounding amused. A pause, where Ria imagines him looking around them. “Is Selene here? It would serve my heart well to see both of my dear sisters again.”

“Not yet,” Eos says. Her voice is trembling with excitement, with a daring kind of hope that Ria had not heard from her before, as she says, “Not yet, but soon. I have so little power on my own during the night time - it seemed easier if we Made you first, as dawn breaks into day.”

“‘We?’”

“Oh, yes. Ria,” Eos calls, breathless with ecstatic. “Ariana, love. It’s alright. Look here.”

So Ria turns back.

She’s taken for a moment by the sight of them: brilliant and glowing with the sun behind them, these two Titans of light and day, bright and beautiful and divine, together. Her mother smiling so sweetly, lovingly, down at her that it warms her to the tips of her fingers. 

And Helios, her _uncle_ , whose eyes have lost their blinding burn. They’re a clear, bright shade now, somewhere between imperial gold and blazing saffron, glowing steadily like a new day’s sun. 

He studies her carefully, taking in the curve of her face and the smooth of her skin, the shawl of gold and pink light that wraps loosely around her shoulders, vines of baby blue and lavender twining through her blond locks. He meets the wide, deep hazel of her eyes - and smiles, flashing pure white teeth and the dimples of his cheeks. Behind him, the sun burns brighter than she thinks she’s ever seen it before.

In a warm, easy rumble, he says, “Nice to meet you, little niece.”


	3. Selene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set 2/03/2015, post-TLH. Features a new original character, Ava, who will be prominent throughout the series. An immortal daughter of Selene and Endymion who attended Camp Half-Blood when it used to be stationed in Galatia, was trapped in one of Athena's workshops after attempting to break in and steal a needed artefact to protect the Camp, and was found and smuggled free millenia later by Ria on one of her routine deliveries. She roams the country now, fighting monsters and rescuing traveling demi-titans in need.

“We should have done it on the solstice.” Ava grasps the strap of her quiver, her silvery eyes warily tracking the trees. “Longer night, greater moon.”

“I didn’t have all the pieces on the solstice,” Ria says, ducking under another branch. _Calystegia_ is out and glowing golden, a beacon of daybreak in the dark of the forest.

Ava follows her, a single, dark brow raised. “Had you informed me of your goal beforehand, I would have come to aid you months ago.”

Ria laughs. “Thanks. But we didn’t know if it was going to work until we tried it. I didn’t want to waste anyone’s time.”

“She is my mother.” Ava’s voice wavers at the end, a dark sort of rasp coming into her voice. She clears her throat on the next breath, flipping her silver _xipos_ in her hand.

Ria pretends not to have noticed. “Even if we’d had all the pieces by then, it wouldn’t have been a good idea. Reviving a Titaness on the winter solstice?” She shakes her head, blowing a puff of air out between her lips. “The Olympians would’ve noticed for sure.”

Ava’s chin tips up, a proud glow in her eyes. “Let them notice. We have nothing to hide.”

They have plenty to hide, actually, but Ria knows the immortal girl well enough by now to realize that there’s no point in trying to convince her otherwise. So she keeps her eyes fixed ahead, following the trail of moonlight through the leaves overhead as they finally break through the treeline.

They step out onto the moonlit cliffs, a cool, night gale rushing past with the scent of ocean brine and pine needles. The sea crashes, roiling, in waves over the rocky cliff face some hundred feet below, throwing up sheets of translucent droplets that catch the silvery light and glisten. A carpet of dark, dewy grass dances all the way to the edge of the cliff, waving in the breeze and twining around their ankles. 

On the ledge of the cliff, close enough to nearly teeter off the side, is a rectangular, white marble stone slab, littered with shards of dark blue glass that seem to glow as the light of the full moon overhead caresses them.

Her mother is already here, standing next to the slab with her brother at her side. They both look up when she comes into sight, smiling.

“Ria, love,” her mother calls, beckoning with a gentle wave.

Ria smiles, coming up to her as she sheathes her sword at her hip. “Hey, Mom.” Her hazel eyes (gold flecks almost shining in the soft light) move to her uncle, and she adds, “Hey, Uncle Helios.”

The Sun Titan waves a bit, arms crossed over his chest and a wide, warm grin splitting his face. “Hey, kiddo. Long time no see.” His bright eyes skip past her then, settling onto Ava as something soft and sad comes into them. “An even longer time for you, my dear.”

Ava is standing squared and tense when Ria looks back at her, giving the Titan a curt nod. “Helios.”

Catching the open fascination on her mother’s face as she studies the girl, Ria steps back to lightly link her arm with Ava’s, telling Eos, “This is Ava. She’s one of the Menai.”

“The last of them,” Ava says, inclining her head to Eos. Her silver eyes shine and glimmer like moonstone in the moonlight, shades of blue and purple and green glistening within.

And Eos gasps, rosy-tipped fingers raising to cover her mouth. Her eyes soften in an instant, though, as a sweet, peach glimmer settles around her shoulders. “Oh, my dear girl.”

Ria doesn’t need an arm looped through hers to sense the tension rippling through her cousin. So she gives the immortal a soft squeeze and then releases her, stepping up to the stone slab and settling her hands on the edge, glancing over the night-colored glass.

“And we’re sure Artemis won’t notice?” she asks the two Titans.

Helios nods. “Dear Brother-in-Law leant us Scorpius for the evening.” He sends a little sliver of a grin over to his younger sister, winking. “With a bit of convincing, of course.”

Eos pinches his arm gently, a flush of rose pink hazing around her chest, making Helios chuckle, and it warms Ria’s heart to see the two acting so much like - well, siblings. She hadn’t realized it until she had first seen the two Titans standing side-by-side, reunited, smiling and teasing and commiserating over old memories, but she sees now how her mother has been missing those things all this time. Missing her siblings, her family. The last living child of Hyperion. What must that have felt like? 

_Then again_ , Ria thinks, glancing discretely over to Ava (who is watching the Titans with a slated expression), _maybe some people don’t have to imagine that feeling at all_.

Eos turns back to her daughter, saying solemnly, “She and her Hunters will be well-occupied until dawn. If we keep it tamed, it shouldn’t draw any attention.”

Ria nods. She moves to the foot of the marble slab, explaining to Ava as she waves the girl over, “When we did this for Helios, we had to make sure to finish before sunrise. Mom could only conceal us from Apollo and the others for as long as she had domain - through the dawn.”

Helios snorts as he comes to stand on the long side of the slab to her right, rolling his golden eyes. “As though that boy would have looked away from his compact mirror long enough to notice, anyway.”

Eos frowns at him as she takes the side across from him. “We are fortunate he didn’t.”

“We only needed a spark, anyway,” Ria tells Ava as she comes up to head of the slab, across from her. The four Titan-borns face off that way; standing in a rectangular formation around the white marble slab. “Just to assemble enough of him that the sunlight could come in and do the rest of the work.”

“With four of us this time, in the light of the full moon-” Eos glances up to the moon over Helios’ shoulder, eyes hazy as a solemn blue settles over her hair. “-it should be much easier.”

“ _Fates be with us_ ,” Helios says in ancient Greek, bowing his head. Eos and Ava both repeat it after him and do the same, so Ria awkwardly does too. 

As one, four pairs of hands come out to hover over the glass. With the silver light of the full moon drifting down onto them, silent and soothing, they begin.

The light that sparks and grows between their hands is a pure, sleek ivory, trimmed in edges of silver and a deep, dark blue. The green and grey of dusk, and the gold glimmer of the starlight. Softer, cooler than what they used with Helios, but somehow almost more striking; a lodestar shining in the sheeted black of the night.

The work feels calmer this time, more controlled, more delicate, weaving thin streams of light between the humming glass shards. Ria can feel the leading touches of the two Titans’ light running over and around her own, guiding the frame of a waning outline while she sets to work on the argent mortar between. It is Ava who works to craft her face; plucking the silvery moonlight out of the air and sewing it slowly, tenderly, with slender fingers tipped in mercury.

The legs come together first, long and pale as they whisper into wide hips, drifting up to a smooth, flat stomach. Two lightly muscled arms braced by thin, round shoulders, meeting as one at the slim column of a neck. It builds on and on, and Ria sweeps her wide, hazel eyes over the form with amazement. They’re actually building her. A body made of pure white moonlight. 

“Focus, Ria,” Helios snaps.

She drops her head, eyes slipping shut to shake the distraction. 

The light brushing beneath her fingers is soft and airy, almost slippery to the touch. Too thin to grasp, to mold, like she’s used to; she has to sort of _coax_ it instead. Moonlight has never really been her specialty, by hand or by heart.

Around her, she can feel the Making beginning to rise in a crescendo. The light under her hands grows, vibrating with a silent hum, tingling against the skin of her palms. She can track the frame as it builds up and over, making a full, hollow structure that _shouldn’t_ be hollow, and she leans forward, grasping more of her internal light and pushing it out of her hands in streams of silver and sweet sapphire. 

There isn’t much to give though. It’s been hours since the sun set, half a day since the last dawn, and her reserves are running really, really low. She and Ava traveled (and fought) a long way to get here already. And, unlike her cousin, Ria isn’t naturally nocturnal - up and active and using everything she’s _got_ so late into the night, so removed from the source of her power.

Already, she can feel the light waning beneath her hands; white light flickering weakly as the glass shards it guides clink together and splinter apart below her touch.

She hears Eos gasp quietly from her left. “Sweetie, please-”

“I know,” she says, grit out through clenched teeth.

It isn’t like last time - there isn’t a horizon now to draw on, to siphon strength from and send it flooding back out. There’s only the moon: broad and brilliant in its calm shine overhead, yes, but muffled when she tries to call on it. The thinnest whispers of light, of strength, trickling into her from it, like she’s gasping for air through a straw, and it’s not enough, it’s not _enough_ -

She focuses inwards, reaching into that bright, glowing core tucked deep within her chest and grasping, pulling, handfuls of energy, radiance, _power_ spooled out from her very being. The light pouring out from her hands finally starts to pick up again, tucking smoothly into the gaps between shards, pieces and pieces soldered together to make silvery tissue and sinew. She can feel her reservoirs evaporating rapidly, each passing moment drifting dangerously closer to a bottom-out she can’t afford, she _can’t_ , can’t be the reason this fails, not after everything they’ve gone through to get here. For her mother, her uncle, for _Ava_ , she has to.

But she has nothing to feed that waning light within her - no dawn or day, moonlight too weak to sustain it. There’s nothing else to give it, nothing at all, but there has to be _something_. She still has blood and bone and cartilage, she has _magic_ woven into her very cells. And she thinks at it, here, take it, _take it_ \- she grasps the light and pulls it up, up, to the hot pulse of her rabbiting heart, the blood thumping through each hiccuping chamber and the air bellowing out of her lungs. She gives it all; every last inch, every last drop, offering it to the light to consume, to eat away. She feels it tentatively dipping into her arteries, shy and slow at first, and then suddenly fanning out, the blink of an eye, liquid radiance trickling through her veins, surging all the way out to her capillaries, and she gasps-

And _burns_. As if someone’s taken a match to gasoline rushing through her, searing her organs from the inside out. Burn, burn, burning as the light from her hands grows bright, bright, _brighter_ , and she squints her eyes through all the brilliant, radiant agony, focusing on the tissue and sinew, together, come _together_ , please, gods, she _burns_.

A flash of white light, beautiful and echoing in shimmers of argent and night sky, so powerful that it forces them all back a step from the stone. 

Ria collapses to her knees, gasping, grasping at the dewy grass beneath her in fistfuls that crumple in her palms. She can’t breathe, can’t think, the _burn_ is still thrumming through her on each heartbeat, rolling waves of anguish with every hitch of her throat.

Up ahead, she can make out the outlines of her mother and uncle rushing up to the stone slab, closing in on a bright figure lying there, but her vision dances out of focus a moment later, lost in the red that shades over her sight, moonlight washed in a venomous crimson.

She curls over, dry-heaving into the grass as the red trembles and glistens over her sight. Gods, she wants to _die_.

An arm settles over her shoulders, slender and cool. She shirks it off, blistering with the acidic heat the simple touch sends welling up to the surface of her skin. The arm retreats quickly, but Ria can still feel someone hovering close; feel the soft brush of their breath against her cheek, puffed and uneven, as if they’re whispering there, words she can’t hear through the shrill whine in her ears. 

She shakes her head, biting back a sob as those cool hands close gently around her own and untangle them from the dead grass in her grip. Their fingers weave together softly, the touch somehow burning as much as it soothes, a nauseous contrast, and she grits her teeth, head ducked and eyes squeezed shut, as she wades through the new waves of pain cresting over her.

It takes a minute or so. Nothing but the burn in her chest and the burn in her eyes and the burn in her blood, the roiling in her stomach, the aching tremble in her muscles, and the soft cool of the hands in hers. A minute of living and suffering through it all, adjusting, before the ringing in her ears begins to subside, and she notices a voice whispering to her. 

It’s soft, and low. Little breaths hushed right into her ear, cheeks brushing with each quiet syllable. It speaks reassurance. Calm, gentle affections in ancient Greek that trickle all the way down to Ria’s core, soothing like a balm.

Ria untwines one of their hands to bring her left one up, gasping, as she cups the cheek opposite of hers. She trembles, holding the smooth, cool skin like an anchor, breathing through it as the burning inside her finally, _finally_ starts to wane.

“That’s it. That’s it, Ariana. Just breathe.”

She opens her eyes, heaving in a long, shaky breath when she meets the eyes like moonstone in front of her. Focuses on the veins of amethyst and lunar blue, the flecks of jade she sees artfully scattered through the silver. Cool, bright silver. A daughter of the moon.

Another shock of red rushes over her sight, staining the silver like blood, and she blinks her eyes hard, feeling a warm droplet dribble down her cheek. She pulls her hand away from the other cheek to catch it, blinking down at the rosy tear that settles onto the back of her trembling knuckles in incomprehension.

“Oh, Ria,” says a voice from up ahead, a heartbroken whisper.

She looks up. 

Backed by the round, white brilliance of the full moon, the Titans stand. To the left, her mother, who glows a forlorn shade of maroon, hands cupped over her mouth as rosy tears of her own glide down her cheeks. To the right, her uncle, his lips pulled thin in a low frown, his golden eyes blazing solemnly down at her, knowing.

In between them, sitting up on the marble slab and gazing down upon her, is her aunt. The moon.

She has a quiet, crystalline beauty; a woman in her early thirties with long, silky hair the color of sterling silver cascading in wavy streams down to pool at her waist, the light strands gleaming white and sky blue in the moonlight. Slender and statuesque with smooth, pale skin that glistens silver in an aura like a trick of the light. She wears a white chiton with a sheer, royal blue himation draped over it, her feet wrapped in silver sandals, adorned with crystal earrings and a silver necklace that glows ethereally. Her eyes, just like her daughter’s, are the color of moonstones, deep and bright.

Ria nods her head to the Titaness, still too breathless to gasp out a greeting yet. 

Selene dips her head, a gesture thoroughly reminiscent of her daughter. Then she turns her head back to meet the excited gazes of her siblings, who quickly step in to start up a hushed, buzzing conversation, and it feels like a mercy onto itself to not have their attention anymore.

Ria glances back down at her hand, unsurprised to find that the rosy teardrop has already evaporated off of her knuckles. She can still feel some dampness on her face, though, so she brings the hand up to clean it. Her fingers track the smooth, damp skin trailing down beneath her eyes, one side, then the other, collecting the rosy liquid on the backs of her fingers and then brushing it off on her jeans.

During one pass, the tip of her pointer finger brushes against a wet streak beneath her nose. She adds “nosebleed” to the rapidly growing list of concerning symptoms and streaks her hand through the liquid there, pulling it back to look at. 

Pure gold ichor clings to her finger, glistening sweetly in the moonlight. Ria stares down at it, a current of hot, electric shock skittering down her spine. 

“It is worse now, so soon after drawing so much power.” Ava squeezes Ria’s other hand, gentle assurance. “It will fade with time. Never completely, but not as much as now. The burning will settle, as well. Until you will no longer notice it.”

Ria shudders, staring down at the ichor on her hand. Her mother had explained to her once, that immortality was easier for demi-titans, in a way. Unlike the gods, the Titans not only draw power directly from their domain but in some cases _embody_ it. And because demi-titans equally inherit this ability, this _connection_ to their domain, to become one with it, unintentional immortality is a more common occurrence than most of the old myths would have one believe.

But that doesn’t mean she - she _wants_ to be-

She looks up at Ava, unable to help the red waver in her eyes as more tears spill out. “Am I …?”

“Flirting the line, you could say,” Ava says, studying her face carefully. She dips her head then, pressing their foreheads together gently, and gives Ria’s hand one last squeeze before releasing it. “All is not set, but you must be careful from now on, if you wish to remain mortal.”

The Menaie stands, tucking an arm under Ria’s shoulders and helping the girl to her feet. She winces the whole way up, ligaments burning with the stretch as her muscles quake underneath her. Her body feels like hot, stretched taffy. Like she doesn’t fit in her own skin anymore, and it bristles, too-warm and itchy, against her. But it’s not as bad as before, not nearly as bad, and she can at least _live_ with this.

They stand together, and Ava leads them through the few steps up to the stone slab. The Titans are looking at them again, solemn and quiet - the Sun, the Dawn, and the Moon. They look divine standing together. Incredibly powerful, beautiful. The Hyperionides, united and whole once more. 

Ava meets her mother’s eyes - two pairs of perfectly cut moonstone joined, the white light of the moon wavering in the space between them. She bows her head in a slow, silent dip, dark hair curtaining around her face. “Mother.”

“Ava,” Selene breathes, the name spoken easily, carried on a soft, loving whisper that sounds like the night wind. She holds out her arms then, saying, “ _My Heart_.”

With a low sound, Ava leaves Ria on her feet, rounding the side of the white marble slab and falling to her knees before it. She wraps her arms around her mother’s waist, facing ducking into her chest, as the Moon Titaness embraces her gently, and the air alights with particles that dance and flutter around them; palettes of cool sapphire and jade, sweet lavender, streaks of silver woven through and trimmed in ivory edges. 

Ria meets her mother’s eyes over the marble slab. They look more alike than ever now, with their long, blond hair and sad, little smiles, crowns of navy blue and dark green, wispy magenta, that wreath around their heads. And their hazel eyes, framed in rose-colored tears that drip softly down their cheeks.

She isn’t expecting it when her mother drops her hands, mouthing to Ria silently across the way: _Thank you_.

A frizzle of warmth rushes through her, collecting in her chest right next to the glow inside of her and lingering there, softly buzzing. She glances back down to the mother and daughter embracing on the stone before her, lit by the full moon’s silver soothe and the glow of the particles floating around them. All this time, reunited, _finally_.

She glances up again when her uncle leans in to wrap an arm around Eos’ shoulders, winking at Ria with a bright, little grin. 

Ria smiles back, the light around her shoulders shuddering out to a bright, radiant gold.


End file.
